


Promises Are Made To Be Broken

by nillial



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Canon Era, Its a good time, M/M, based on that one time alex tricked a town into thinking he talked to a ghost, ghost john talks to living alex, i PROMISE its mostly happy, its the late eighteenth slash early nineteenth century and alex can talk to ghosts, john is one of those ghosts, so did alex but that comes into play later, they both made an oath to always be cautious and john broke his side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 12:01:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9548216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nillial/pseuds/nillial
Summary: He had spoken with many ghosts-- too many to recall. There were a few, perhaps, that he could remember clearly. For example, his encounter with his mother, as well as the first time he spoke with a being trapped in their own earthly purgatory.There was also a visit from the spirit of one John Laurens, which included stories, farewells, and a broken oath.





	

Alexander had, in fact, spoken to a ghost.

He had spoken with many ghosts, for that matter.

He may have disclosed it to the public as nothing more than a hoax in order to frighten others for his own amusement, but he had conversed with a spirit. One Baron de Viomenil, to be exact, after a soiree with some guests and a poet who claimed he had learned how to speak with the dead.

In the end, the brief ritual performed by the poet did not matter a great deal.

Viomenil willingly appeared in front of Alexander.

He conversed with him for a short while, largely in French. Viomenil spoke of painful gunshot wounds and familiar foul-smelling battlefields, of fields littered with fresh cadavers and wailing soldiers in need of assistance. He spoke of how he perished— a bullet taken to the knee, which was tended to, but caused his demise nonetheless. He spoke of the King of France, who he loyally served under.

He then whispered to him a secret so vile, so shocking and abominable, that Alexander almost retched when the words first reached his ears.

“I beg of you, Hamilton,” Viomenil pleaded, “do not divulge this information to a single soul. I wish for my legacy to remain positive and intact for years to come. My only desire is for my descendants to look upon my life and feel not shame, but pride.”

Alexander agreed to his request. Viomenil vanished shortly after in a cloud of mist.

His exchanges with the dead never stretched beyond a few moments. Spirits presented themselves to him voluntarily, often after some time had passed since their demise. Their souls quickly tired when in the mortal realm, for they had released themselves from their former dimension long ago. They bestowed themselves upon him because they had wishes that needed to be granted, items or people that needed to be protected, private information that needed to be spread, or confidential knowledge that needed to remain undisclosed, yet had to be said in order for the spirit to unburden itself. They sought him out because they knew he possessed the rare ability to listen.

Occasionally, the apparitions that visited him did not request a favor. Instead, they said their goodbyes.

His first encounter with a spirit was with his mother, one year after her passing.

She visited him long after the dark had settled over Nevis. His brother and cousin had retired for the night, but Alexander could not rest. Of course, that was common-- almost every night was spent awake. Aside from that, he felt as if someone were waiting for him.

The moon was high in the center of the sky, providing Alexander with just enough weak light to finish a poem. Perhaps he would publish this one, but that was rather unlikely-- he did not feel it sufficiently matched his standards, nor the paper’s standards.

He felt a hand press firmly on his shoulder and turned.

There was not a soul to be seen. The air was still.

Feeling secure, he turned again to focus on his work. Instead, he was greeted by a foggy apparition of his mother.

The corners of her mouth upturned into a smile.

 _“My Alexander,”_ she whispered, her voice serene and welcoming, _“My son.”_

 _“Mama?”_ he croaked.

 _“How I have longed to see you again, my Alexander,”_ she continued, _“How I have wished for this day to be bestowed upon the both of us. And now it is here!”_

_“Mama, you are— you—”_

_“I am no longer among the living. The fever that afflicted the both of us has passed, but stole my soul before it departed. Disease is a thief, Alexander, a terrible thief. I can only hope you are strong and refuse to succumb to it provided that it takes hold of you again.”_

_“I do not— Mama, I—”_

_“You have a gift, Alexander. You have a brilliant mind and a rare ability. You see, I desire to speak with your brother before we part. However, I cannot. He does not possess your power.”_

_“I…I do not understand.”_

She leaned nearer to him. _“You can converse with the dead, Alexander.”_

Circumstances were he was unable to speak were sparse. That moment was one of those circumstances.

 _“I have not much time,”_ she said after a stretch of silence, _“I must return to where I now belong. I love you.”_

She kissed his forehead and dematerialized into a mist. Alexander was frozen in place.

 _Maybe it is time I retire, also,_ he thought. Still dumbstruck, he slipped into bed.

He never saw his mother again.

The spirits on the island spoke to him frequently. There were still some who roamed Nevis, lost and wandering. They were people who passed years beforehand, yet their ambitions remained unfulfilled. When they glimpsed at life one final time, they felt dissatisfaction. They felt, though they were dead, they needed to live once more. Thus, they walked the island as neither living nor deceased, trapped securely in an inescapable purgatory. Alexander had taken to calling them ‘purgatorials.’

Purgatorials were vaguely human-shaped beings that were almost plasmic, tinted with a peculiar gray color in varying shades. He found often found them sitting blankly on his floor, or staring at the horizon outside. They spoke in monotone voices, and they never once looked at him. Even if he deliberately moved in front of their line of vision, they would always somehow find a way to stare ahead. They would ramble softly about their life, their unresolved goals, their desires. After they finished, they would repeat it. It was a story without end.

His first purgatorial looked to be perhaps fifteen or sixteen years of age, judging by their height and the pitch of their voice. They unintentionally approached Alexander. Although they walked forward, ignoring him, he followed.

 _“My mother is dead. My father is living. He is poor. We are all poor,”_ they began, gray plasma dripping softly on the ground below. _“I am the eldest of my four siblings. He promises us that one day, we will escape. One day, we will be showered with the riches we always dreamed of, singing songs of joy and splendor. Yet we are still on Nevis, and we are still stuck. When will we escape, like he promises? Surely, the time is approaching. I desire to work with finances when we do. I will be able to provide for us. Tell me, when will we escape? How? I still feel the pain of endless hunger and weakness. I wish to be in the world full of bountiful wealth, like Mother is. I long to be in the fruitful plains of another land, like Father and my siblings should be now. Why did they leave me behind? Both of them abandoned me. Why? Why?_ Why? _I must continue my search.”_

And then they repeated their tale.

Alexander never possessed the ability to feel complete and satisfied. Though, the lengthy chats with purgatorials certainly made him want to try.

The hurricane led to a plethora of purgatorials forever roaming their purgatory that was Nevis, as well as spirits that still appeared at his side, several years afterwards.

He did not perish, no matter how much he craved to. He lived to tell the tale to his father, a long ways across the sea, safe and secure from harm. That was where he wanted to be— across the sea, safe and secure from harm.

He wrote fervently. He wrote about the wails of the dying, of bloodcurdling shrieks and final screams, terrible enough to strike fear into the hearts of angels themselves. He wrote of houses that had been plucked off the ground and thrown miles away from their initial spot, while others were razed completely, now leveled with the ground. He wrote of the countless cadavers floating in the water, and he wrote of lives that had been ruined. He wrote of the deafening roar of lightning and sea— of entire families shrieking, running away from the waves, searching for a shelter to escape to— of the saltiness of the undrinkable rain and the smell of gunpowder plaguing the air around him.

There was too much to write about and not enough paper, not enough ink, not enough time. He desperately needed more time. Alexander was always grasping at the days flying by.

Eventually, however, he felt he had expressed most of the terror into words.

The reverend read it and published it in the local newspaper.

The hurricane had destroyed homes, snatched the souls of innocent families, ruined Nevis and its people’s state of mind. Even so, enough funds were gathered to send him to the American colonies in order to begin anew.

Despite their kindness, he decided, from the moment he boarded the ship, that he would never return.

Nevis was no longer his home. As soon as he arrived in the colonies, he would transform into a new man.

Still, he could never truly escape the island. Even in New York, he encountered spirits that had followed him from Nevis. He listened, of course, because he was the first one they came across that harbored such an ability, but he grew more restless and more jaded to tragic tales as the days passed.

The meetings with the dead and encounters with purgatorials only worsened when he joined the war.

Alexander took an interest in military. He had a craving, a desire clawing inside of him, begging to fight, because the only way he could be satisfied was to die as a glorious martyr of his young country. It was his only option if he wanted to prevent joining the purgatorials.

The war was his chance. It was his opportunity to sate the hunger inside of him, to quell his fear of never transcending past purgatory, to at last prove he was worth something.

He could not say he was always a stalwart supporter of the new nation removing itself from Great Britain. For that, he could only credit his first friend, a tailor by the name of Hercules Mulligan. He had provided him with visions for the colonies— an improved nation. Perhaps it was not a nation that the past Alexander Hamilton would have cared for, but it was the nation that the contemporary Alexander Hamilton would strive to create.

There was one Aaron Burr who favored silence and neutrality. A particular Burr who Alexander temporarily idolized for his academic achievements. Graduation at sixteen was phenomenal. It was a goal that he wished to accomplish.

(He had, in fact, also spoken to his wife, Theodosia, after she perished. She begged him to make certain that her daughter was always safe and secure. She pleaded that he take her in, lest Burr fall victim of an untimely death. Alexander had reluctantly agreed to her request, notwithstanding the fact that Burr was becoming less tolerable by the minute. He had experienced the absence of parents, and he now knew of the strong desire a parent held to keep their children safe from harm. Theodosia II was now fifteen years old, and would become sixteen by the time summer arrived. Aaron Burr had not yet expired. At the very least, he was keeping Theodosia’s final wish intact.)

Aaron Burr proved to be a fair opponent in court cases. Alexander was once able to refer to him as a friend, even. However, his lack of morals and principles drove him to the conclusion that he was a dangerous political candidate, and he had always dreaded the day that he was given a seat in government. That day eventually came, much to his dismay. Worse, it was in replacement of his father-in-law.

Burr had joined the war as well.

He was never sure if Burr may had been concealing the same hunger Alexander held. The type of hunger Alexander was not afraid to speak of, but Burr hid in secrecy.

That hunger grew every hour of each day, yet he was never able to sate it with battle. His Excellency never gave him command of his own battalion until the final fight. That was what could at last snuff the fire-- leading his own men. Striking fear into the British as they marched forward, glowing with valiance and valor. He yearned for glory.

When he finally did receive orders to lead a battalion, he executed it with such grace that it could have caused seasoned generals to feel a pang of envy.

The war was difficult for many, not excluding himself. Comrades, acquaintances, and newly-joined strangers alike wasted away in disease, or injury, or lack of resources, or a horrific amalgam of the three. One evening, he had even witnessed the birth of a purgatorial. He observed silently, almost in a trance, as a gray, plasmic being pulsated for a short moment under the skin of a deceased Redcoat, then slowly crawled its way out of the mouth. It squeezed itself down in order to fit, but as soon as it escaped, it began expanding to the size of the man it clawed out of. It mumbled its story during the whole process.

Being with Laurens soothed his mind, however. Even things as simple as resting by his side distracted him from the tolls the war had taken.

_Laurens._

His dearest Laurens. Each time he recalled the war, memories of Laurens resurfaced. He still missed him. He still experienced a deep pang of melancholy each time he remembered that Laurens was gone. He would not see his face once again until he, too, ceased his existence in this realm.

He felt as if he had not fully cherished Laurens while he was still roaming the world as a living man. If he could only have one more moment with him…

Eliza had been abundantly caring towards him after they received word of his death. She had helped him work when he needed aid. She spread a blanket on his shoulders when he needed warmth. She did not disturb him when he did not want to be disturbed. He was truly grateful for her, and forever would be. He did not deserve her in the slightest.

The night he had received the news, he locked himself away in his office and remembered John.

He could recall when they first met. Laurens’ freckles had been what initially captured his eye. There were so many-- dancing across his face and neck and arms like the stars danced across the heavens.

So he spoke to him. Both immediately knew they enjoyed each other’s company.

A romantic relationship spurred off of that friendship soon afterwards.

He could recall when they first kissed. They had snuck off and hid themselves in a nearby wood, and, then, before he was fully aware, Laurens leaned towards him, and he did the same. It felt incredible. He loved every second of it. He loved Laurens.

He could recall the first two letters he received from him. He still had them, tucked away in a box and stashed among other saved correspondence in hopes they would blend in and never be recovered. Alexander began composing a reply the moment after he had obtained them. They kept correspondence, and every letter made his heart grow fonder. Laurens had very firmly instilled himself in Alexander’s affections.

He could remember laughing with Laurens at even the most dimwitted comments. He could remember speaking alone with him about personal things that he had never told another soul, as well as topics that meant nothing. He could remember when he was presumed dead after nearly drowning in Schuylkill River.

The look on Laurens’ face when he saw him stagger back into camp was burned into his mind. His eyes were shot with red. He had most definitely shed tears. He could remember his expression turning from misery, to shock, to anger, and then to relief in a matter of instants. He ran to embrace him.  
_“Hamilton,”_ he had told him, his voice shaking, _“you are alive.”_

 _“Of course I am, Laurens,”_ he replied, puzzled. _“Why would I not be?”_

_“You-- I-- you were reported to have been seen falling into the Schuykill. It seemed as if you had drowned. Even the General is in shock.”_

_“I am glad to report that I am among the living.”_

_“Please, Hamilton, please, please, never die.”_

_“That is a promise I cannot keep, Laurens.”_

_“I know! I am aware you cannot swear to it. I-- please, be heedful. For my sake and for yours. If you agree to this, I will practice caution as well. Hamilton, please-- there are much too many people who need you alive.”_

Alexander promised. He visited the General shortly afterwards and was met with laughter and tears alike.

He could remember it all. He was not sure whether or not he desired to, however, as every memory caused his heart to ache. Yet, he could never cry. For whatever reason, he could not sob in the way he wanted to-- only soft tears and small weeps escaped his eyes when he felt like bawling. Did that make him inhuman? He loved him, so why could he barely shed a tear after receiving the news?  
Perhaps it was that he could not bare to think of the scene. Had his body been struck with one bullet, or two, or three? Had his dying moments been full of pain, or was it numb, or was it instantaneous? What played before his eyes as he took his final breath? Was he confused, or panicked, or did he accept his death with open arms? A glorious death was what he had desired. He had perished leading the black battalion he had wanted to lead, trying to defeat a troop, just a fortnight before the British announced their surrender. All Alexander knew was that he was satisfied enough to become a spectre instead of a purgatorial.

He knew because Laurens visited him.

It was only two nights after he had received the word. He knew that he must have been a restless spirit, just as he had been in life.  
Alexander was sat at his desk, finishing work. Work often distracted him, but at times similar to that, it failed. Mist quickly gathered in the light of a nearby window, and soon it shaped into his friend.

Alexander could only stare.

Laurens rested a hand on his shoulder. _“Hamilton,”_ he said. _“I was never aware you had such an ability. Why had you not told me of this earlier?”_

A sob escaped his throat. _“Laurens.”_

 _“I do believe I have not much time. I apologize for retiring from this life so early.”_ _  
_

He grinned. “Your abrupt exit is of no importance in the time being. Say what you must, friend-- just know it will have no effect on my admiration for you.”

_“There is not much about me you have yet to discover. Surely, you know of Martha and my daughter? I assumed you do, as a letter you forwarded suggested so. Forgive me for not telling you myself.”_

He nodded. _“I know of them.”_

_“Good. If you are able, give Frances my apologies. I am aware I am not the best of fathers.”_

_“Understood.”_

_“And, if something should happen to my sister and her husband to where they are unable to care for Frances in her early age, please agree to have her and treat her as your own.”_ _  
_

_“It would be an honor.”_

He rested on his knees, his hand still on Alexander’s shoulder. _“How is Miss Schuyler?”_ _  
_

_“She is well. Our son, Philip, is but eight months in age, yet freckles are already beginning to dot his nose. Similar to you.”_

Laurens grinned. _“I will do my best to keep a watchful eye on him. Blame any misfortunes that may fall upon him on me. Blessed be his days.”_

Alexander, out of habit, reached to grasp his hand, but soon pulled it back once he remembered that Laurens was nothing but fog and mist now. If he did touch him, he would not feel the warmth he would expect to feel. Instead, he would be groping at bitter air.

Alexander’s eyes shifted to the floor. _“Do you recall the oath we made on the night of the Schuykill incident?”_ _  
_ Laurens’ smile widened. _“I do recall Schuykill. You had been reported dead. All of your comrades mourned you, not excluding myself. I recall walking the perimeter of the camp, disregarding the soldiers on watch for foes. I desired to weep, and weep I did, but not as much as I wanted. It was necessary I sob, but I could not shed but a few tears. I could not stop thinking of your mind, and ideas, and plans, and how it may have benefitted our nation as a whole, yet it had gone to waste because of a slip. A slip! It seemed as if it was not so, and I am overwhelmingly glad it was not. I thought not only of your wasted bright mind, but of you and I. All I desired was one more kiss, one more conversation. I wanted to travel backwards and urge you not to go, to stay back. However, even if I was able to do so, you would be too much a stubborn person to heed my warning.”_

 _“You wound me,”_ Alexander jested.

Laurens’ chuckled. _“Forgive me. When you returned, I was not unconvinced that you were a spirit of some nature. An apparition caused by grief, perhaps. But I quickly realized this was not so. Oh, how relieved I felt! I was overcome with nerves, for I had been thinking all night of us and of your mind and how your death may have been prevented. Therefore, we made an oath that each of us would be cautious. For the sake of the other.”_

 _“Laurens,”_ he addressed slowly, _“you did not uphold your promise.”_

 _“I know, Hamilton,”_ he sighed, _“but you must proceed to uphold yours. Not for my sake-- for Miss Schuyler’s, and for Philip’s. For the good of the nation. The new nation, I hope. Tell me, Hamilton, have we won?”_

He nodded.

_“Excellent. I always did know that Britain could not keep us for their own in the end.”_

_“Laurens,_ why _did you break your oath?”_ he asked suddenly. _“Yours is a mind that could have progressed our nation a great deal.”_

John sighed. _“Hamilton--”_

_“We could have aided our country together!”_

_“Hamilton--”_ _  
_

_“We could have developed laws! We could have improved our state of being! I am not aware whether you know this, but I suspect that our current system shall_ not _last, and I am not uncertain you would agree with me--”_

 _“Hamilton--”_ _  
_

_“Laurens, we could have helped a wide variety of people! Issues are already beginning to develop within our system, I can see it. We could solve that. That, and a great many more. Laurens, do you not understand? We may have eventually passed the abolishment of slavery! If we could only do it together. If only you had not broken your damned oath--”_

“Hamilton.”

He now realized his eyes were beginning to water. _“My apologies.”_

Laurens’ grip tightened on his shoulder. _“I would have done many of those things with you, friend. But I am no longer of this realm, and that is a fact that has yet to be accepted by you.”_

He let go a shaky breath. _“Your promise._ Why?”

_“Things do not always unravel as they should. I was certain we would take the British. I was not expecting… What happened to me is of no relevance. What became of my battalion?”_

Alexander’s eyes darted away. _“... They have been returned to their masters.”_

His grip, again, tightened. Why spirits could touch him yet he could not touch spirits, he would never know.

A bout of silence passed. Alexander, not desiring to waste their little time, quickly asked, _“How did it feel? To perish?”_

He released a soft breath teeming with melancholy. _“Dying is more hope-draining than anything I have ever experienced. It is excruciating for a long while. I had feeling for longer than I would have liked to. As your vision fades, so does the pain, until you are numb and only able to observe the blood draining out of your body. Eventually, all sensation is lost, and you are nothing but a hollow shell.”_

 _“How did you come to realize you were a spectre?”_ _  
_

“It was quick. It occurred only what I speculate to be a moment after I first perished. I rose from where I lay, certain I had died, and I was correct in my thinking, for when I looked down there was but a corpse drained of color and coated with blood. Soon after, however, my vision again blurred and I was overwhelmed by fatigue. I fell back into my body, to rest and lay there for as long as it deemed itself necessary. Prior to that, I saw these… creatures. They were vaguely in the form of a human, yet… gray. Plasmic. Eternally muttering.”

_“Purgatorials.”_

_“What?”_

_“Purgatorials. They are neither ghost nor human. They did not lead a fulfilling life and are unaware they no longer reside among the living. Instead, they walk the Earth and repeat their tale without end. I have met a good many. No matter that, however. Continue.”_

_“I was told by another spirit that I was quick-waking, as I had only spent a fortnight residing in my body, while others oftentimes tend to rest there for much longer. Sometimes as long as forty years. She told me to follow the violet light before ascending. She claimed violet light glows for miles. It is said to lead to spirit-speakers. It is much stronger if you knew them during your time in the world, and more prominent depending on how close a relationship you had. The vividness of it was increasingly overwhelming the closer I journeyed, yet I had not expected you to be the aforesaid spirit-speaker.”_

_“There are more of my kind, then?”_ he asked, awe crawling its way into his tone.

_“Yes, Hamilton. Spirit-speaking is a rare ability, but there are more.”_

_“Wonderful,”_ Alexander muttered with a grin, then quickly recalled their ticking time and questioned, _“What did you see before you expired? What memories danced across your vision?”_ _  
_

_“There were flashes of my father and my siblings. I saw my younger siblings playing together. I saw my mother singing lullabies and I saw my father’s face when he told us she had died. I saw Martha’s expression as I left. I saw a man who I do not believe I have ever told you about, who goes by the name of Kinloch. I saw my battalion, and I saw His Excellency. I saw the Marquis. I saw you.”_

_“Kinloch?”_

_“Yes. I had relations with one Francis Kinloch while I was studying abroad, but it did not last. We differed in opinion. He preferred monarchy under the King, and I, rather plainly, did not.”_

He tried to speak, but then realized that Laurens was dwindling away. The mist was disappearing.

 _“Dear friend,”_ he stated, _“you are fading.”_ _  
_

He set his gaze on his disintegrating form. _“It appears so.”_

 _“I do not wish for you to retire once again,”_ he whispered.

_“Nor do I. I hoped we would have more time, Hamilton.”_

_“As did I.”_ Tears threatened to spill over. _“Is there anything else of importance you desire to tell me?”_

 _“There is not a great deal of things that needs to be said for me to be satisfied.”_ _  
_

_“Anything, Laurens. Tell me anything.”_ His lover was slowly beginning to resemble a soft outline rather than a full figure. The tears began to slide down his face.

 _“My father was not as good as he could have been,”_ he said. _“I miss my siblings and I miss my mother.”_

_“Continue.”_

_“I wish I could see Frances. I feel terrible. Give her my regards and my final farewell.”_

_“I will. Go on.”_

_“A section of me desired to perish, but I regret that feeling. I regret my thoughts. I want it back. I wish to speak to my family, I wish to see my daughter, and I regret not staying until her birth. I have dishonored Martha and Frances both. I have only forced misery upon them. I wish I could have loved women in the same way I do men. I love our new country. I wish to see it thrive, and I wished to do that with you, but both life and death have been cruel to me. I wanted to begin anew, but I cannot.”_ Tears began to fall. There was mist and dew streaming along his cheek. Alexander had never seen a spectre cry, and he decided he never wanted to again.

 _“I love you,”_ he choked out.

 _“I love you, too,”_ he said, _“My God, I love you, too, Hamilton. Please make certain to not forget me. Hamilton--_ Alexander, I love you and wish you a life of prosperity and joy.”

 _“Please, John, I love you,”_ he tried, his voice scratchy.

John placed a hand on his cheek. _“I bid you a final adieu, my beloved. Do improve our nation to the best of your ability, as I forever believed you would.”_

Both leaned forward. Alexander’s lips touched his for a brief moment, and all he felt was dewdrops, and mist, and air as bitter as the deadliest winter. John had gone up in a rapid curl of mist and fog, and Alexander was alone again.

He could remember Eliza knocking on his door shortly afterwards. She had asked if he was alright, for she had heard him shouting and speaking and mumbling alone in his office.

Betsey had been so good to him. She did not deserve to be plagued with the burden of a husband who, had he told anyone of his secret, would be considered insane.

He lied and told her that he had had a vicious nightmare and nothing more, and that it would do her good to rest. He would retire from his office and return to her side soon.

He acted upon what he had promised. He returned to bed soon after. He had learned much about promises that night.

Now, decades later, after conversing for a short time with Viomenil, he exited the room in favor of the one full of guests eager to hear the truth.

And why should he not tell them? He had spent all his life hiding behind his fear. He had always been afraid of becoming a purgatorial. He had been afraid of being sent back to Nevis for loving Laurens like he did. He was afraid of disclosing the secret he had kept since his mother’s ghost had first spoken to him for the fear of being deemed insane. Now an opportunity to reveal that secret was staring at him expectantly. What damage could it do? Niemcewicz, the poet, was the man who claimed to have dark powers. Alexander could use that as an excuse for his own benefit. For once-- for one time in forty-four years-- he could release the secret that weighed down his chest. He could break the oath he had made for himself as a young boy and say what was burning in his lungs.

It would not prove to make a difference.

When his mother swore to stay by his side for as long as he may live, she was aware it was an oath she could never keep intact.

When his father swore to keep correspondence, that he would be sure to visit, he knew it was a promise that could not be kept.

When Laurens swore to him that he would always exercise caution, so long as the other did the same, he knew it was an oath that would be broken at some point.

Perhaps oaths were made only to be broken. Perhaps they were created for a feeling of security that would crumble as soon as the promise did.

Alexander broke the Schuykill oath, also. He had not been cautious when he was led to the bedroom of the Reynolds household, and he had not been cautious when he confessed to the world what he had done. He had, instead, moved too rapidly and caused Eliza and the children great pain.

He concluded that secrets had to cease their confidentiality at some point. Private matters tend to surface, whether it be a day later, or a century later, or, in his circumstance, thirty one years later.

Perhaps his vow to himself all those years ago needed to be broken. He was certain that his young self was aware of that as well. Perhaps he should have broken it no more than a moment after his mother first spoke to him.

On that day, he shattered his covenant to himself.

“I did speak to one Baron de Viomenil,” he confessed.

The small crowd gasped.

“What was he wearing?” one asked.

“His clothes were bloodied. I can only surmise he was donning the same clothing as he wore when he perished.” Why were they not shouting accusations of insanity? Why were they not damning him to a life of involuntary seclusion? Was he wrong to live in hiding?

“What did he say to you?” another questioned.

“We conversed for a short while. He revealed to me something I am not at liberty to disclose.”

He was soon peppered with questions. Genuine questions, not accusations, on what it was like to speak with the dead, asked out of genuine curiosity and interest, not out of malice. There were few moments when he could recall being so relieved and exuberant.  
He left with a feeling of liberation. It was no longer necessary for him to hide.

But a question nagged him-- was it?  
Perhaps some would not be as welcoming as the guests. Surely, word would get to the people that he had spoken with a dead man, and he would be deemed insane. And what of all the other conversations he held with spirits? If he told of those, he would certainly be placed in a mental facility or banished from the country for his unnatural ability. But he was not at fault-- rather, it was the Niemcewicz man. And what might happen to him? Would he receive a greater amount of blame? Would he be exiled for his demonstration of a dark art? If so, it would be on Alexander’s hands. For the rest of his days, it would hang heavy on his conscience. And what would happen when Niemcewicz was to visit Hamilton as a spectre? How would he explain?

He called on his aide, Philip Church, and Niemcewicz himself.

“You shall tell no one of what you saw on the night of the soiree,” Alexander said to them a few days afterwards. “You must disclose it to the public as a hoax.”

“I am unsure of the meaning behind your words,” Niemcewicz replied.

“The Viomenil encounter,” he explained, “It is spreading to the people rather quickly. You, Church, and I will describe it as an elaborate lark we plotted together, and that is all it will ever be.”

“But you did speak with the Baron, Mr. Hamilton?”

 _“No,_ and you all must impart it as much. Each time you recount the tale of the Viomenil encounter, a jest is all it will forever be.”

“But--”

“Do you desire to be flayed alive for your summoning of a ghost, Mr. Niemcewicz? To be hanged upon the gallows? To be locked tightly in a chest and thrown into a river with no mercy for you or your family? Do you desire to be the beginning of a new era of witch trials?”

“No--”

“I suggest you do as instructed.”

Church pulled him aside. “Pardon my rudeness, but I believe you may be acting irrationally.”

His gaze hardened. “The Viomenil encounter is but a jape that we three devised for our own amusement. Leave it as such.”

They did. The rumor died eventually, and Alexander renewed the promise to himself to never let another living soul know of his ability.  
He would stay in hiding for however long it proved necessary, which he could presume was forever. Promises may have been created with the knowledge that they would be broken, but he would be damned if he made the same mistake twice.  
So he decided to keep the oath he made all those years ago intact and shrank back into hiding.

-

It hurt like a fire in the trenches of Hell, but he had no time to care, for there was none to waste.

He had broken another oath. He had shattered it until it was dust. He had thrown caution to the wind and let it scatter without regard for where it settled. The feeling in his stomach had told him that he would not need any caution where he was going.

Aaron Burr had been one of his first comrades. He recalled laughing together when they were young, and he recalled debating in court, and he recalled idolizing him for his accomplishments. He recollected a good lot of it when he came to realize that they were both aiming a pistol at one another.

Burr had always been the cautious one. He was able to analyze each situation and provide a reasonable solution within minutes. Alexander knew little of his beliefs-- he was uncertain if he had any to begin with-- but he did know that he described duels as absurd and erroneous.

Alexander had always been the reckless one. He participated in an affair that caused his relationship with Eliza to crumble. Betsey would remain one of the kindest souls he had ever met, yet he betrayed her, deceived her, and hid her from his wrongdoing. He regretted ever allowing Maria to lead him to the master bedroom in the first place, and he regretted not refusing her. It was not until the summer of 1997 that he realized he had grown tired of hiding. His acts were irreversible, and he had grown tired of hiding all his life. So, he released a pamphlet describing his affair and sacrificed the dignity of Eliza and Maria with it. That had been the first notable he broke his oath.

The second was when he permitted his son to attend a duel with one George Eacker. He would continue to despise Eacker all his living days. That boy snatched Philip away from the gift of life, from his mother and father, from his siblings. Philip took a bullet to the hip and suffered for hours, and Alexander _permitted_ it. He would not see his son again until, he, too, retired from his earthly career.

It had not until they began counting did he realize that they was using the same pistols Philip used, in the same place he was shot. Was Alexander standing where his son fell? Was he gripping the same gun Eacker used to kill Philip? He dared not ponder it.

This was the third significant time he had broken his oath in the last decade. He was typically rash, while Burr tended to be heedful. Why such a heedful man would agree to such a rash thing, he would never know.

He knew from the beginning he could not kill Burr. He had instructed his son to aim for the sky, and if Alexander did not follow the same advice, he was just as innocent as Eacker.

He forgave Burr even before the bullet pierced his skin. The pain was agonizing. Every minute of every hour, he felt himself slip closer into the hands of Death, but he was alive nonetheless. Alive and dying.

He was delivered to the side of Angelica and Eliza. Eliza sobbed when she received word, and had to turn away when she saw him. He could not put her at blame-- he was aware a bullet to the ribs was not the prettiest sight to behold. Angelica was attempting to remain composed for the sake of her sister, but even she wept.

He was unable to feel the lower half of his body.  He was certain that he had met his end. This knowledge did not make the pain less unbearable, however.

Earlier, he had told the doctor that he forgave Burr, and warned that the pistol was still cocked and loaded. Now, he was rambling. Speaking distracted him. He had spoken his beliefs all his life, and he was determined to leave in a similar manner. His mind grew foggier by the minute to the point where he was unsure whether or not he was even speaking any longer.

It took hours for him to finally perish.  
The pain gradually numbed until it was no more and he was unable to breathe. His vision began to fade.

Glimpses of his life flashed before his eyes. His mother’s smiling face as he curled around her. His brother’s expression frozen in a laugh as they played together. His father leaving. The hurricane ripping through Nevis. Edward Stevens. Mulligan’s welcoming grin after he had first arrived in America. Washington’s stern expression as he led his battalion. Lafayette reaching to clasp a hand on his shoulder. Laurens grinning, Laurens grumbling in anger, Laurens reaching to embrace him. The victory at Yorktown. Burr’s smirk as he fought against him in trial. Eliza smiling, Eliza in her wedding gown, Eliza weeping. All of their children’s beautiful faces-- not excluding Philip’s agonized expression as he lay dying. Writing, writing, writing, working, working, working. Angelica’s stoic face, as well as her unrestrained anger following the Reynolds Affair. Jefferson’s scowl, Madison’s exhaustion, Maria’s frown. Finally, Burr’s panicked expression as soon as he shot him.

A feeling of satisfaction settled over him.

Suddenly, his soul rose from his body. For a mere fraction of a moment, he saw Eliza sobbing into Angelica’s shoulder, who, too, wept. He saw his doctor in shock. He saw himself, drained of color, eyes unfocused, chest unmoving. The familiar deep crimson shade of blood stained his clothing.

He fell back into his corpse.

Alexander remained in pitch blackness for what felt like a few moments. He could hear nothing, nor could he feel, nor see, nor speak. He then rose again. Upon examining his surroundings, he concluded that he awoke in the same spot he had died. His body was nowhere to be seen. It had likely been shipped off, if not already buried.

He stood. To his right was a shelf of medicines and bandages, and to his right was John Laurens, no longer barely visible like he had been when he first spoke to his spirit, but solid and filled with color.

“Laurens!” he exclaimed, reaching to embrace him. He was, once again, able to be felt and touched, just as he was in life.

“Hamilton,” he greeted in turn, “you have broken your oath. A great deal of times, really, but more so in our present circumstance.”

“Forgive me,” he said. “At the least, I am able to see you again, as well as Philip and my mother. Perhaps even my father-- I have received no word on his state of being. Tell me, Laurens, how many are there?”

He chuckled. “Let us speak with each other outside. I have waited a full fortnight for you to wake.”

John released the grasp he had on his hand and slipped through the wall, disintegrating into a dense amalgam of mist and fog. It was something Alexander never imagined he would be able to do. Nonetheless, he hesitantly ran towards it and came out on the other side with no resistance.

“Not as difficult as it seems to be, is it?” Laurens asked.

“Shockingly,” he replied, beginning to notice a violet light in the corner of his eye.

The other pointed towards it before Alexander had a chance to speak. “Let us travel to the violet light of the spirit-speaker before we depart from this realm. We shall converse along the way.”

The light was alluring and brilliant, though they seemed to be a ways from it. It was similar to a second sun, shining through trees and around buildings, illuminating the people roaming the streets.

“Where is my son?” he asked, “My mother? Is His Excellency there?”

“Do not fret, Hamilton,” he replied. “You will soon join them. Miss Faucette and General Washington are unable to visit the realm of the living often. However, restless spirits who perished young with many unmet goals, yet accomplished enough to be satisfied, are able to visit this realm typically once a month for one day without feeling drained of energy. Spirits such as Philip and I. Seeing as Philip had met you three years prior and neither of us wished to overwhelm you, he permitted me to be the one to see you here.”

He could recall his encounter with his son. How painful it had been-- he had watched Philip grow from a mere infant, helplessly crying and flailing and smiling without a clue of the world around him, to an adult, capable and witty and kind. He had watched him die, too. Screaming in agony, bleeding until there was nothing left, his eyes beginning to lose their brightness until there was not a shred of life left in them. He arrived to speak with him three weeks after he perished.

Alexander sobbed as he apologized. Philip told him that he forgave him. He had not forgiven himself, and he was not certain if Eliza had, either.

“How did you awake in only a fortnight and arrive to me in the same week?” he asked.

“Ghosts tend to travel faster depending on the speed at which they desire to go. That is why I was able to reach you in a mere day, despite me rising in South Carolina.”

“How long do you suspect it will take us to reach the spirit-speaker?”

“We are presently traveling at the regular pace of a living person. Based upon the direction we are headed, I can assume that they reside in New York. The trip should take, at most, three or four hours.”

“Laurens?”

“Yes?”

“What is it like?”

He grinned, all of his teeth showing. “Hamilton, it is nothing less than magnificent. There is everything you could ever desire. There are castles and plain houses, which you may live in at your choosing. There are beaches with seas the color of topaz, and there are forests with golden suns and babbling creeks, as well as plains and meadows with clear skies that stretch for miles. When a loved one perishes, you greet them warmly and celebrate their arrival with a great feast-- even more astonishing than the feasts we hold every evening. My mother and brother both tightly embraced me when I arrived and told me of all the splendid things that awaited me. The best thing is that there is not a shred of judgement-- you and I can live freely.”

“Freely?”

“Yes. There, freedom is not something you must fight valiantly for. It is given without question. Martha was there, as well. I apologized to her and was, to my surprise, forgiven. I hope you do not mind, but I, taking advantage of the no-judgement circumstance, told her and the rest of you and I.”  
“How did they react?”

“Martha was understanding, bless her soul. James only shrugged his shoulders as if he had been aware the entirety of the time-- which he very well could have.  My mother smiled, and your mother told me she had occasionally observed from above and was well-aware we were past the boundaries of camaraderie. Philip divulged that he often dug through your old correspondence and had strong suspicions. General Washington only laughed and told me that it did not come across as a shock.”  
At that, he could not stop himself from blushing. Did he possess the ability to blush anymore, now that he had no blood? He, at least, _felt_ as if he were blushing…

That aside, how long had His Excellency known? How had he learned? Had he seen them creeping away in order to be alone, or had he surmised their relationship from their interactions?

And Philip! Perhaps, when he ascended, he would have a stern conversation about the privacy and confidentiality of another’s correspondence. Could Alexander do that in a place where all judgement either dissipated or is deemed invalid? He supposed he would know when he arrived.

Furthermore, how much did his mother see?

He decided to prompt another topic.

“You are able to see the purgatorials now, correct?” he asked. “Have you managed to speak to one before?”

“I have had no luck,” John replied. “They seem to be on another plane of existence, separate from ours. Although, I was not a spirit-speaker. Perhaps a dead spirit-speaker may sway them?”

“What difference do you suppose that will make?”

“I am not certain. It is worth the attempt, however.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Yes, you are right. I will try another day, after I ascend. Did General Washington tell you of his presidency?”

“He attempted to explain America’s present government,” Laurens said. “You may have to explain to me again what, exactly, we are doing.”

Alexander felt his eyes light with passion. He explained, at Laurens’ request. It must have taken him the better part of the hour. Laurens had an amused expression plastered across his face.

“Who is Jefferson, again?”

“The worst human being I have ever had the displeasure of acquainting.”

“Yet he took the role as president?”

Alexander’s eyes darted towards the ground. “I may have… prompted that.”

_“Pardon?”_

“They tied for the presidency. Because the Federalists were not particularly in favor of either, they partially depended on me for advice, and... Burr has no principles! How would I have any idea of what he would do to our freshly-built nation? At the very least, Jefferson displays his beliefs publicly, no matter how disagreeable they may be. As a result, I endorsed him, which, among other differences, led to our duel at Weehawken.”

Laurens shook his head. “I am still in shock that the neutral, forever-cautious Aaron Burr slaughtered you.”

“‘Slaughter’ is a bit harsh a term.”

“What would you prefer?”

“Perhaps ‘caused my retirement from this earthly realm of the living’ would suffice.”

Laurens laughed. It still sounded similar to music. “I take it he has been forgiven?”

“You are correct in your thinking, yes.”

“Good. Spirits with a vengeful attitude may not ascend until their aforesaid vengeance is unleashed.”

He nodded, then attempted to broach a different topic. “What of your father?”

Laurens sighed. “We have… made amends. We are not exactly as close as father and son may be, but we have forgiven one another for past disputes.”

"And your battalion?”

“Some were able to ascend, whereas others are now roaming the earth as purgatorials. I only wish I could apologize.”

He slipped his hand into Laurens’ palm. “We will find a way. Perhaps some are still living? Though the chance is slim, one may be a spirit-speaker.”

He grinned. “I love you.”

“The sentiment is mutual,” Alexander replied, returning his smile.

He questioned more. Laurens answered. Hours passed by, and he was not certain whether or not they were still traveling at the same pace as a regular living being.

The light became increasingly blinding. He opted to travel behind buildings so as to avoid the overwhelming brightness.  
Violet seared into his eyes, burning as if it were fire. Laurens assured him that it only meant they were drawing nearer. Hamilton could only wonder who the spirit-speaker would be. Who would he divulge last secrets to? Who would he trust with confidential information that could destroy the people’s memory of him? With information that could destroy his family’s memory of him?

He stopped. The light immediately softened to a warm glow that shone through the windows of a house. _His_ house.

“We have arrived,” whispered John.

Of course! His children. He must have gifted (or, perhaps, burdened) them with the ability to speak to ghosts. How could he have not known?

He slipped through the wall. It became evident that his initial theory was incorrect.

Before him lay his wife, buried under blankets, slumbering, a soft glow surrounding her.

After years of believing he was alone, that he must have been the only spirit-speaker in New York, he had loved and wedded one of his own.

And of _course._ He had listened to Eliza mumble softly to no one in particular whenever she was alone. He had observed her occasionally pause suddenly, look shocked, and stare straight ahead, very obviously trying to ignore whatever was beside her. He had seen mist and fog attempt to form vague shapes, yet disappear as quickly as it had come, He wrote it off as a spirit with low energy, or his mind deceiving him, or the weather. Eliza, however, would notice. She would go wide-eyed and excuse herself from the room. The reason he could not see them was because he could only view ghosts that presented himself to him, and him only-- not to Eliza. How many other spirit-speakers were there, then? How improbable was it that he fell in love with one and asked to wed her?

It was of no matter. She was here. He could speak to his Betsey one final time.

“Go on,” Laurens encouraged. “I will wait for you, beloved.”

And so he stepped into the violet glow streaming into the window and let himself dissipate and form again, right in the view of Eliza herself.

She awoke with a start, only to find him standing beside the edge of her bed. Her eyes showed that she had wept earlier, which only became more evident as they widened in shock.

“Alexander,” she whispered. “Tell me this is not a dream. Tell me you are here to speak with me.”

“You are no longer asleep,” he confirmed. “Although, I must ask-- why did you not confide your ability to me?”

“I was not uncertain I would be hanged and tortured, had I divulged,” she said.

“The same reasons I never told of my power, then?” he asked.

Expressions of confusion, realization, and disbelief flashed across her face in a few short moments. “Husband, you cannot mean--”

“I do. I am-- was-- a spirit-speaker. I have been since my mother spoke to me one year following her passing.”

“I was told that the number of spirit-speakers are slim. I was sure I had to be the only one for miles, perhaps in all of New York. If that is true, then how had this happened?”

“I am uncertain myself. Have you ever seen gray, plasmic beings roaming the land?”

“I have. I refer to them as ‘betweeners.’”

“I refer to them as ‘purgatorials.’”

“How-- oh, I must not forget. We have limited time. Tell me, Alexander, of everything you wish to divulge, and do so quickly.”

“Of course,” he agreed, resting a hand in hers. “I do love you, Betsey.”

“I love you too,” she replied. “Tell me what is necessary.”

He glanced back towards John, who sat watching, and tried to reflect on his life.

He had lived a satisfying existence, and hoped to lead an equally, if not more, satisfying afterlife. He hoped to spend it with everyone who waited, as well as those who had not yet perished and he would soon begin to wait for. He thought of the future, and he thought of the past. The past, at points, had been unkind to him, yet there were moments he cherished everyday. And there were confidential matters that, in life, he did not wish to speak of, yet he did now. Perhaps he began anew three times-- once at birth, a second when he arrived in New York, and a third when he died. How many times would he begin anew? Was it of any matter? No, it could not be. What truly mattered now was that he was going to be joyous for eternity, and would one day be joined by the rest of his family. He would tell them all of his private matters, and Eliza would catch up with others, or nod along, or, perhaps, she would form a friendship with John and speak with him. Oh, how wonderful that would be!

He compiled a list of secrecies in his mind and turned again towards her. “Let us begin with one John Laurens.”

**Author's Note:**

> It's here!  
> This was something that's been sitting in my mind forever. I apologize if my writing didn't fit the late 1700's/early 1800's thing I was kinda going for. I haven't really read a whole lot from that era of writing. Still, I absolutely love ghosts, and it was really fun to write, so I'm happy enough with it!  
> This was my first lams fic, but I plan on writing more in the future. I have a couple vague ideas of what to do next, but if you have a prompt, feel free to shoot it at me either here or at nillial.tumblr.com.  
> Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it!


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